


Counting the Stars

by ncfan



Series: Middle-Earth and Númenor in the Second Age [19]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Constellations, Contemplation, F/M, Gen, Primogeniture, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you ever look at the stars and know you're meant for something more?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting the Stars

Írimon once said to her that when he's troubled or irritated, he goes to his bedchamber window at night and counts the stars in the sky. It's soothing, he had said to her, with that gentle surety that makes the child seem far older than he actually is, until Silmariën remembers that her brother is but seven years old, and has just begun his schooling.

The sky is not yet dark enough for her to count stars, she sees. It has not yet turned blue-black, instead adopting the tone of a reddish-purple wine violet. Only the brightest of the night's stars can be seen as of yet.

It is summer. More to the point, it's the first night of the three weeks out of summer when Silmariën's grandfather, Tar-Amandil, takes his family to the King's House in Andúnië in Andustar, and they can spend three weeks away from the court, away from the turmoil and melodrama, as their father Elendil and their mother Silmië call it. During these three weeks, Silmariën is torn between her love of the sea and missing the buzz of the royal court in Armenelos—her parents might weary of it, but she does not.

When evening came, Írimon started begging to go down to the seashore, saying that you could see the stars better from there. Tar-Amandil, Elendil and Silmië still had things to do, and Isilmë had to be left behind—for all that she is just as grateful as their parents to leave the royal court, traveling often leaves her ill—so it is that Silmariën has gone with him.

Here they are at the shore, all sand and shell and sea-smoothed stones, the waters of the ocean stained deep purple-red. Írimon has left his shoes behind on the shore and rolled up his leggings, and stands ankle-deep in a tidal pool, perhaps staring down at the little fish, or perhaps trying to catch a hint of the reflection of the stars. Silmariën considers calling out a warning to be careful of sea urchins, as they can often be found in tidal pools in this part of Númenor, but refrains, knowing that if Írimon had stepped on a sea urchin, she would certainly know about it by now. Silmariën walks listlessly up and down the shore, occasionally shaking sand out of the skirt of her light blue shift and shorter blue over-gown.

It's finally sunk in.

All who know her agree that the Princess Silmariën, first-born child of the Crown Prince Elendil, is a charming, vivacious young woman. She is never lacking for grace, and lacks for beauty even less, tall and svelte as she is, with long black hair like waves of silk, fair, clear skin, a straight nose, and lightly slanted light blue eyes. She is beautiful and knows it. She is charming and knows it. She is intelligent, and knows it.

 _And do I not have the prowess of a man at arms?_ She knows that she does. Silmariën is much like the other noblewomen of Númenor; she has learned archery for sport and pleasure. More importantly, she knows what few other women know, with not even her mother or her sister sharing this knowledge—Silmariën knows how to wield a sword. Her father indulged her, of course, in letting his daughter learn sword-craft, but Silmariën possessed a fascination with weapons even as a small child, and she would not rest until she felt a sword hilt beneath her long hands and knew very well how to use it.

Silmariën is confident in herself and in her abilities. That would likely be her sin, then, overconfidence, one she tries, but is not always successful in reining in. She is at times overconfident, but it matters little, and matters even less with what she has realized now, the bitter taste of it rolling over her tongue slowly like an aged wine.

She is beautiful, intelligent, and charming. She is skilled with bow and sword. She could be the most savvy, cunning politician in all of Númenor, and it would still matter not. Silmariën has been displaced, quite thoroughly displaced, by the seven-year-old boy staring quietly down into a tidal pool, searching the surface of the water for the reflection of the stars.

If there is one thing about life among the royal court Silmariën does not like, it's the tendency of the courtiers to speculate wildly concerning the future, if only because Silmariën has learned to discount such speculation as imprudent. She was more than old enough to take notice of the gossip when Isilmë was born. _The Princes's wife has given birth to yet another daughter, and no son is forthcoming. What will happen if she gives the Prince no sons?_

They were all awash with speculation, wondering what would happen: Would Elendil pass the Sceptre on to one of the son of his brother Eärendur, once Amandil has died and he himself must think to his heirs, or would Silmariën become Queen? There had never been a Queen of Númenor before, but neither had any King ever passed the Sceptre down to the child of a sibling, instead of one of the King's own children. Which precedent would be set first?

Neither, as it's turned out. Silmariën is the first-born child of the Crown Prince of Númenor, but she will never be Númenor's Queen. A boy is more suitable to be King because he is a boy.

Silmariën could not even tell you why she wanted to be Queen. Perhaps she simply wanted it because, until her brother was born, just seven years ago, she had believed that one day her grandfather's crown and sceptre, and all that was his, would be hers. And now that she knows it will never be that way, there is a faint bitter taste on her tongue to think of Írimon as King. It is not fair to blame him. She knows that. It is not Írimon's fault for being born and thriving as he has. He is wise and gentle and takes well to lessons; surely he will make a good King. And yet…

It is growing dark, and Silmariën picks up her skirts in her hands, uncaring of how her bared legs gleam white in the moonlight. "Írimon?" she asks softly, summoning a smile up to her lips. "Do you want to go back to the house?"

Írimon looks up at her with wide eyes and shakes his head. "Not yet, Elennith." That's what he calls her, mixing the Quenya word for 'star' with a Sindarin suffix meaning sister. He calls Isilmë 'Isilnith'. Star-sister and Moon-sister. He really is quite fixated upon the heavens.

Silmariën walks back away from him, though not so far this time, so she won't lose sight of her brother. She looks up on the sky, and starts at the realization that it has become quite dark indeed. The sky is a mantle of blue-black velvet, with bright shining jewels stitched into its cloth.

There is Gil-Estel, high in the sky, the star that story has it is really the ship Vingilótë, manned by her forefather Eärendil, bearing a Silmaril upon his brow. Sometimes, some years, Silmariën will come out on this shore at night and hear someone singing, somewhere in the distance, out of sight. Sometimes, the singer will sing of him, and of the star that gives hope to so many.

There is Alcarinquë the Glorious. There is Borgil, a prominent red star; there is Carnil, another red star. There is Elemmírë, the jewel of the Stars. There is Luinil, a blue star. There is Lumbar. There is Morwinyon. There is Nénar.

Silmariën traces constellations in the sky. There is Menelmacar, the Swordsman of the Sky, known also as Telumehtar and Menelvagor. There is Remmirath, the Netted Stars. There is the Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar.

Drawing deep breaths of the clear, salt-scented air, Silmariën counts.

_One, two, three, four, five, six…_

_Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty—_

"My Lady?"

Silmariën turns about, startled from her counting. Confident that he's gotten her attention, Elatan drops all pretense at formality, as she three years past bid he do. He adopts a somewhat apologetic smile. "Silmariën, the Crown Prince, your father, and the King your grandfather, bid me fetch you and your brother the Prince. He'd rather that neither of you were outside so late at night without any guard."

"Five minutes!" Írimon calls desperately from the tidal pool.

The princess smiles tolerantly at her brother and nods. "Alright, Írimon, five minutes, but then we have to go back up to the house. I'll tell Father it was my idea; don't worry, Elatan," she adds for the sake of the young man of Andúnië.

Silmariën tucks her arm through Elatan's, and a smile grows back over her lips when he doesn't pull it away and they begin to walk, slowly, ever slowly, down the shore. "Silmariën, why did the Crown Prince name his son 'Írimon'?"

The question goes unexpected, and rather not what Silmariën is used to out of Elatan, who normally could not care less how someone was named. However, she sees no harm in answering the question. "Well, Father thought him a very handsome baby." She quirks an eyebrow and the left corner of her bow-shaped upper lip. "And tell me, O Man of the Stars: why were _you_ named as you were?"

Elatan tucks his chin into his collar and laughs softly, his dark hair, chopped short just above the shoulders, falling over his face. "It was night when I was born."

"Oh? So prosaic an explanation?"

"My parents are prosaic people, Silmariën."

They fall to silence, and the smile falls from Silmariën's face. The sound of the gently crashing waves fills up her heart and lungs; the salt-air fills her nostrils. She squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to breathe evenly.

"Something's troubling you," Elatan says softly, breaking the rhythm of the waves in her ears. "What is it?"

Silmariën stops, stock-still. The wind blows through her hair, through her skirt, against her disc-shaped earrings. She draws her arm out of Elatan's, and points up at the sky, staring unsmilingly at him. "Do you ever look up at the stars and know you're meant for something more?" she asks quietly. "Except it's slipped out from between your fingers, and you know you'll never get the chance?"

He doesn't answer her for a long time, but stares at her, hands stuffed in his tunic-pockets, brow furrowed. Finally, Elatan scuffs at the sand with his foot and remarks, "I'm not sure that _never_ would be the term you want to be using, Silmariën…"

The princess smiles faintly, but she never gets the chance to respond: Írimon comes walking up saying that he's ready to go home, and he leads the way back up the dunes, Silmariën and Elatan behind him, arm in arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Note# 1: Írimon is the birth name of Tar-Meneldur.  
> Note# 2: Some notes on stars and constellations: Gil-Estel corresponds to Venus; Alcarinquë to Jupiter; Borgil, either to Betelgeuse or Aldebaran; Carnil to Mars; Elemmírë to Mercury; Luinil either to Neptune or to Rigel; Lumbar to Saturn; Morwinyon to Arcturus; Menelmacar to the constellation Orion; Remmirath to the Pleiades; the Valacirca to Ursa Major, also known as the Big Dipper. The rest are unknown.


End file.
